Melanie Karsak
Hauntings and Humbug
For all the Scrooges out there…
1
Humbug
A chill wafted through the workshop, the frozen air making me quake to my very core. On the other side of our shared workbench, Bailey Cratchit, my apprentice, blew on her fingers. She sighed. Heavily. I knew it was cold. It was always cold. Hell, I couldn’t even feel my toes. But until the device was done, delivered, and payment received, I didn’t have a shilling to spare on extra coal. It was going to stay cold, or we would both end up on the street—whether she liked it or not.
The bell over the front door in the outer office chimed.
We both stilled.
“Missus Scrooge,” Cratchit whispered, a look of panic on her face. No one ever came in through the front. Ever. Our customers knew well enough to come through the back. And if the authorities decided to poke around, we’d both end up in a correction house.
I motioned to her to grab the drape lying nearby. Nodding, she turned and grabbed the fabric. With a hurried snap, she unfurled the cloth. I grabbed the end and helped her cover the machine on which we were working.
“Good afternoon. Hello? Anyone here? Mister Scrooge? Mister Marley?”
With an exasperated huff, I slid my goggles onto my head and pulled off my apron, tossing it onto the workbench.
“Do you want me—” Cratchit began.
“No. Keep the door closed. Stay quiet.”
Bailey nodded.
I headed to the front.
“Allo, ho, ho. Mister Scrooge? Are you in, sir?” a voice called again.
I opened the workshop door, entering the tiny office front. The place was covered in dust. I hadn’t used the space since Marley died. I stared at the two men standing there. They were festively dressed, both wearing red and green scarves with holly berries pinned to their lapels. The nip of cold had turned their noses red. A dusting of snowflakes decorated their clothes. I glanced outside. Snow was falling, and it was already dark. When had it gotten so late?
“What do you want?” I asked. I was on a tight deadline and in no mood for festive frivolities.
The two men looked at one another, each encouraging the other to speak with a wide array of annoying eye gesturing and head tilting.
I had almost reached the end of my patience when the squatter of the two began. “I apologize for the intrusion, madame. This is Scrooge and Marley’s Wonder and Marvels Studio, is it not? Is Mister Scrooge here? Mister Marley?”
“Mister Scrooge was last seen departing London by airship to India. If you have any luck locating him, then you’re far more fortunate than I have been. As for my partner, Missus Marley, you’ll locate her in Twickenham Cemetery. She’s not much a conversationalist these days, though.”
Their mouths gaping open, the men stared at me.
Idiots. “I am Missus Scrooge. This is my studio. What do you want?”
The second man, the taller of the two, wiped his nose with his scarf, then said, “Oh, madame, please forgive us. We have no wish to bring ill-tidings. In fact, quite the opposite. As the proprietor of this business, we were hoping you’d be willing to make a small contribution to our charity.”
“Charity?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. I eyed the men’s clothing, focusing on their boots around which the melted snow was now forming puddles on my floor. I frowned.
The rounder man nodded. “It’s the Christmas season, of course. So many people are in need. Won’t you help? Such a lively business you have…” he said, motioning to the faded images of carousels, spinning carts, and other amusements—all ghosts of my past—on the walls. “Carnival entertainments, isn’t it? Such lovely carousel horses. Such a whimsical work, Missus. Scrooge. You really must love children. Won’t you share a few pence to better the world for your fellow—”
I lifted my hand, silencing the man. “Do you see that behind you?”
The men turned around.
“See what, Missus Scrooge?” the first man asked.
“Right behind you.”
The second man turned. Apparently the brighter of the two, he eyed the door. Sighing, he motioned to his partner, who finally caught my meaning.
“Oh, please. Can I not move your tender heart with the milk of human kindness this holiday season, Missus. Scrooge? There are so many in need—” the round man was saying when the bell over the door rang once more.
Humbug! What was happening tonight? I still had work to finish.
My niece, Fawn, entered. Looking at Fawn was like looking at a duplicate of my dead sister: bouncing golden curls, bright blue eyes, and red cheeks. She was dressed in a striking scarlet-colored coat, holly berries trimming her white fur cap. She smiled mischievously at me.
“Happy Christmas Eve, Aunt,” she told me then turned to the solicitors. “Happy Christmas, gentlemen.”
Fawn crossed the room, her arms outstretched. “Dearest Aunt Ebony.”
Panic swept over me. I crossed my arms and stepped back, steeling myself to her.
She giggled at the sight. “Now, don’t be like that,” she said, grabbing my elbows. She leaned in and kissed both of my cheeks.
“Your nose is as cold as ice,” I complained.
She laughed once more. “Oh, but it’s so beautiful out there. Charles and I were caroling with friends. He stopped at the bakery for some fresh gingerbread. I told him I wanted to pop by for a moment. Now, where is Bailey? Bailey, are you here?” Fawn called, moving toward the workshop. “Bailey?”
“No. Get out of there,” I said. Taking Fawn by the arm, I pulled her back. “She’s working. We have a deadline.”
“Oh, Aunt. For what? No one is waiting on a carnival horse tonight. It’s Christmas Eve. Bailey? Are you there?”
The workshop door opened a crack, Bailey slipping out. “Is that you, Fawn?”
I frowned. “You have work to do, Missus Cratchit.”
“I—” Bailey began, stepping back toward the door.
“Oh, Aunt Ebony. Let me at least say hello,” Fawn said merrily then kissed Bailey on both cheeks. “Oh my word, your cheeks are as cold as my own. Is there no fire in the workshop?”
“Well…” Bailey began, but I gave her a hard look, and she let the sentence fall away.
“How are you? Your husband? The children?” Fawn asked Bailey.
Bailey smiled, but I saw a shadow behind her eyes.
“All is well,” Bailey said simply.
“Your husband, Robert, how is he recovering?” Fawn asked.
Bailey’s husband, Robert, drove a butcher’s cart. Some weeks back, there had been an accident, and the cart had tipped. Robert had broken his leg in the misfortune. Bailey hadn’t said much about it, but I’d assumed he was well. Surely she would have said otherwise if not.
“Well enough. We’re just trying to prevent the cold from setting in.”
Fawn nodded. “Yes. That’s right. Be sure to keep him warm. And little Tim?”
“As well as can be.”
I frowned. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen Bailey’s youngest boy, Timothy. A sickly, small lad, he had his own share of health troubles. From time to time, Bailey would run late for work on the boy’s account. A damned inconvenience, really.